If Only I Could
by dib07
Summary: Vent oneshot. Dib actually gets his moment! His chance! What he's been waiting for his WHOLE life! To have Zim on an autopsy table!


**An Invader ZIM oneshot**

 **If Only I Could**

 **Disclaimer:**

I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.

An Invader ZIM oneshot

 **Warnings:**

 **Dark Dib, blood. Angst.**

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 **Author's Note:**

Requested by: RhiannonsaurusRex

Well, here you are! It's dark and more DARK! It was also one of those stories that I just had to get out of my system. It had been on the waiting list of stories to write for literally months, only doing it after completing 'Saving Zim.' Well, enjoy!

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 _Don't leave me out in the cold_  
 _Don't leave me out to die_  
 _I gave you everything_  
 _I can't give you anymore_  
 _Now I've become just like you_

 _Muse - Dead Inside_

* * *

Oh, Zim, zim, ZIM! You don't know how long I've been waiting for this, have you? No, of course, you could not possibly know! You were too busy trying to kill me; too busy trying to get your miserable little plans to work.

It's good. Really good, this feeling.

You're on the other end of the scale, lost deep, deep down in the pit of your own disgrace. I bet you never thought you could fall so low, could you? Well, here I am. Here you are.

I look down at my gleaming row of surgical utensils; my collections of valued scientific implements that will help me discover your inner workings. This duty is mine alone, because you are MY alien, MY discovery. No one else deserves this moment, this success. I'll be the one going down in history as the first man to dissect a living alien. I'll be on the front of every sci-fi book and movie, every newspaper, every magazine. You'll be nothing but a lasting footnote of course, something to dwell on: a step to knowing. But that is ALL you will become. My victory will be spread over the pages, over the minds of men. You will become a monument to all things broken, incarcerated and imprisoned. That is YOUR legacy. And you know what? I think it suits you very well.

This is the penalty for losing the war, Zim. Mirroring your own tenacity, I will show you no mercy.

For a moment I stray nearer to the tools, overlooking them with joyful pride as a kid might gloss over newly wrapped Christmas presents. Your malefic eyes stare up at mine, one wine-coloured orb squinting pensively, the other is wide open, and seems to cast elicited hate in my direction. I ignore the stares, like I have ignored the screaming rants. Everything is no different to what I've heard you say before. You are a creature with no imagination, no sincerity. You're like a juke box set on repeat. After awhile I automatically shut my mind from the perverse shouting.

"Look. Worm." You say at length, the long, tapered tongue wetting your dry lips. "We'll make a foul deal. How about that?"

This alien's attempts to parley with me are pathetic. Honestly, I would have expected no less. He is predicable after all.

"No. No deals. Besides, what could you possibly offer me that I don't already have? You are to be my unremitting success. And, after I'm done with your body, I'll own your home, your base. Even Gir. I have everything, Zim."

His tone darkens, as does his countenance. He does not like to taste defeat any more than he has to. Again he tests the metal cuffs as if during the course of the ten seconds he hasn't checked, he thinks some new flaw has arrived in their composition, and that another attempt will surely spring him free. But the metal cuffs never change or falter: they keep him uncomfortably locked down on his PAK, exposing his vulnerable chest, belly and limbs. There is no escape for him, not from the table, and not from my scrutiny. I can hear the PAK trying to respond to your internal demands, and I suspect some mental battle is being waged, some form of telekinesis. But like the many attempts before, the PAK does not respond in the way you want. I have jammed all the ports by melting the exterior metal shell with acid. Now you cannot poke out your ugly spidery legs and neither can you whip up a gun and blow my head clean from my shoulders. All you can do is struggle.

"Let's see. Where should I start, Zim? The chest? The stomach? The legs? Can't kill you too fast, as I can only do this the once."

Zim strains against the cuffs even harder, as if my teasing threat has pushed his anger and fear forwards by about ten leaps. He knows what is coming, and he knows I'm not going to stop.

xxxx

Stealing you had been the easiest thing.

Ironic.

You have proved to me many a time how deadly you can be. A quick-turn, one lance of your PAK leg, and it would be over for me. You have powerful teeth, and thick, arresting claws that can slash across wood with coltish ease. I never really did compliment you on your reflexes either. Your antennae, hitched upright, can detect a butterfly landing behind you, or a single mote of music. You can even see in the dark. Your eyes are dark, and troubled, like rough waters, but your vision is greater than mine. Did I ever tell you how cool your eyes look? No, I don't think I have. I don't think I ever will.

It was the moon, wasn't it? Or was it the water beneath that so consumed your short span of attention?

It had been very cold that night, and the fog had rolled in, creating that mirror-effect where the still waters reflect everything, even the midges as they scattered over the lake like purring clouds. The moon was full, and as bright as a silver coin. You just stood there, staring at it.

What could you see, Zim?

What were you thinking?

For a moment, as you stood, you appeared so mortal. And suddenly frail. Like you were the last of your species, destined to loneliness, caught before a moon that didn't give a damn about any of us.

Yet you stood before it, like some acolyte before an overseer in the gentle darkness. The silver of the moon made you shine: make your eyes sparkle like the glittering vapours on the water's edge. And for just a moment I held fast, and I almost considered turning away, and letting you remain free.

But, you see, I couldn't do that, could I?

Revenge is a nasty thing, you see. It keeps coming back. It keeps taking, and taking. It's driving me mad. The only way to stop it: to cure it, is by killing you. I might not enjoy it. I might not even like it. But it's got to be done. You understand, don't you? War is war. And survivalist's have got to have their trophy.

You taught me to be the best, Zim. You taught me to fight. When you came, I was just a little kid who didn't know any better. But you taught me real pain, real disappointment, and filled my soul with mortality. I had to pay you back, didn't I? I had to give you something. It's only fair, right?

Yet, despite our many battles, our collisions and exoduses to violence, it's you standing before that moon that haunts me the most. I don't know why that is. I'm hoping that, as you take in your last breath, that image will die with you. Because I don't want it.

I really don't.

xxxx

"So, what will it be, Zim? You don't need those legs any more, do you? Or shall I just get right into it, and cut you down the middle? No more pretences anymore, huh? No more shortcuts. Let's get to the heart of the matter, shall we?" My teasing provokes him, like it always has. He is easily moved to anger. I have never seen anyone else as emotional as he is.

"I'll kill you! I'll KILL you for this!" He starts trying to swing his little arms; arms that are cramped to the table. He shudders and fights, but for all his efforts he merely tires himself out again. I watch his small chest draw in and out as he breathes. Sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if he needs to bite down on someone. That someone being me.

I cannot let him distract me. I have much to do.

Going through my collection of utensils again, I select a common marker pen, and begin dabbing is down Zim's smooth, soft green skin: dotting it all down his sternum, then across his tummy. He squirms and shouts. I am tempted to run thick, heavy tape across his mouth, but I do not know where his nostrils are, and I do not want to accidently suffocate him. For all I know, the first incision may make him vomit or hack up blood, and he'll need to expel it. I can't have him dying prematurely.

You are going to be my jigsaw. And I am going to see how the pieces fit.

xxxx

I think you have nightmares, Zim.

It was a late night, Saturday, if memory serves.

I remember it was pleasant sort of night. Cool, calm. I had mac n' cheese for dinner. Then I went to your house to set up my spying equipment.

Sometimes it's really easy to hack into your base if I do it during a celebration week, like Christmas for instance, or Halloween when you are least likely to notice it, or, when you finally do, it's a little too late.

You're so tense and hateful of the humans, that you spend the time listening to your own paranoia and dread. You barricade the doors, and huddle on your couch, hugging Gir close to you as carollers come to your door, or trick-or-treaters or charity workers. So I hooked wires to the outside of your base, and set up the miniature radar-dish. Of course, my hacking techniques aren't great.

Yeah, I admit it.

All they can ever do is give me basic data, or a simple monitoring image using your own data link uploads. I managed to hack into the one in your bedroom, if you can even call it a bedroom. You don't often sleep. You fill your time working, pacing up and down, or readjusting your machines. You are a busy bee, I'll give you that one. But when you do sleep, you jerk awake ten or twenty or forty minutes later, filling the small room with your harrowing cries. Behind closed doors, behind that mask, you're nothing but a big baby, Zim. Heck, I don't know what you dream about, for all I know, you envision us humans going about our daily lives. But something deep down tells me it's deeper than that. Perhaps something happened earlier in your life before you came to Earth to make new memories. And your sleeping hours are full of sweaty restlessness. Maybe you think about all those you have killed. Maybe you dream about the two of us, and our wars go on in your head with your eyes shut.

Either way, I don't really care.

xxxx

So, what shall I start with?

I pick up the scalpel. It's everyone's simple go-to tool when the initial cuts are to be done. It is small, light and efficient. It is so sharp that when I brush my thumb against it, it draws blood. Quickly I use some tissue, and bandage the cut. As Zim watches, his large, red eyes always on me: monitoring every move I make, I slip on thin, translucent surgical gloves. This way I cannot contaminate his tissue cells once I start cutting him open.

He draws in a breath, his chest rises. His tongue flickers out again. He looks scared. He tries not to be. It's almost like he must face death with a certain level of stubbornness, or he fails in some way.

His behaviour has always been strange with a taint of the unknown.

I pull on one of those white, ugly asbestos masks. The cheap elastic band runs tight across my head. I don't want to breathe in the bacterial fumes or the stink of blood once I start. Also, breathing on his body might also contaminate his cells once I open him up.

The white, paper-thin mask on my face startles him still more. It is finally going through his head that yes, I'm _really_ going through with it and that hollering and crying and begging will get him nowhere.

"D-Dib..." He snaps, his mouth working even though half the time no words emerge from his vocals, "No... no more! I... I wouldn't do this to you! You must understand, human-thing!"

I casually gave him that I-couldn't-careless look. He is sliding into his rehearsed lines again. I don't know if it's a defence mechanism he has, or if he's just plain stupid. The point is he's only stalling for time.

The savagery had gone from his eyes, his stance. He lays there, his nakedness an epitome to his defeat.

Taking away his clothes was only been one small humiliation.

I hold onto the scalpel. The other tools are... nice. But they are a bit more barbaric, with less... finesse. There's the surgical drill – a device that is fitted with a circular blade that spins fast for cutting into bone. There's the scooper that looks a lot like an ice-cream scoop. It's for fishing out delicate material, like kidneys, or eyeballs. Then there's the scissors, clamps, towel clamps, forceps, the saw and lastly, the retractor. The retractor holds open the skin, or spreads the ribcage wide.

Behind me are jars: jars that will soon have Zim's organs floating in them.

I've had time to prepare, you see. Time to gather all the necessary equipment. I even cleaned out my dad's old lab; just to be sure it was spotlessly clean and ready.

See, I can be just as meticulous as you, Zim.

"Funny, isn't it?" I say to him, not caring for his response. I just want him to know how I feel. I need to get it out of my system, because, before long, you won't be coherent enough _to_ listen. "You've been in my position before, as you've caught humans, and trapped them. You experimented on them too, didn't you? Of course you did. Now you know how it feels to be on the wrong end of the scalpel!"

I want to see him as the monster he is. He is shivering – has been now for a few minutes, either from the chilled temperature in the room and his lack of clothing, or because he is terrified. That lusty anger in his eyes I know so well has gone and withered away while I wasn't looking, and he blinks owlishly, looking small and fragile beneath my hot gaze. He still continues to snarl, but he is all bark and no bite. I imagine that if he could free himself, he'd launch into me, and not stop clawing my flesh until I was no more than fleshy ribbons at his behest.

Zim does not defend himself against my accusations. "I did what I had to." He says. "You still have a lot to learn, stink-brain. If it were not for my clever plans, those dirty humans would have done something to me! So I did something to them!"

Is that the best you can come up with, Zim?

Already my hands are getting sticky and clammy with sweat from within the surgical gloves. My left hand holds the scalpel tightly as I lean over him. His whole body tenses as he tries to lean away from me, but he can't move an inch. Part of me feels sorry for him. I do not know why. Human weakness, I assume. At this delicate, critical point, I have to remind myself that he is the enemy. He is the monster. I must do what I must do. My dad had to make similar sacrifices to be the scientist he is today. If I want to become a man, I must follow through.

"How many organs do you have in there, Zim? Can you still function if I remove one or if I remove several?"

I dexterously jab the point of the scalpel at the first inked dot left by the marker pen, the one at his collarbone. It is as prominent as his ribs: ribs that flex outward as he breathes.

He fidgets again, grunting his Irkish grunt. His little claws hooked to the cuffs are clenching: hard. And his hands are bleeding. Dark, runny green fills the crevasses of his fists, and drips down to the metal surface of the table. His shakes are getting stronger.

"Don't... d-don't you touch me with that!" He squeals, his eyes narrowing. The alien lifts his lips in a half-snarl. He is at my mercy, and he cannot stand it.

"Your days of ordering me around are over, you ugly demon. Get used to it."

I start to put pressure on the scalpel, and the point digs into the skin for just a moment. Then contact is made, real contact, and the sharp end slips inside as the flesh is sliced through. Zim's growls intensify. More snarls.

"Do you even have a heart, Zim? Shall we find out together?"

I haven't and won't give him any pain relief, even if I somehow knew the drugs wouldn't adversely affect his biology. He doesn't deserve to be numbed from it all. I will provide no escape for him.

This is MY duty. MY honour. It will not be taken from me. Every human should do the same. We cannot tolerate the enemy. We have to defend ourselves. We have to overcome them.

The scalpel doesn't penetrate very deep at all. It hits bone. Zim's sternum. But that's okay.

Following the dotted ink line I have drawn, I cut along it, as if I'm slicing through paper. Blood begins to spray and pepper my mask, my gloves, my clothing. I knew I should have worn an apron, but aprons only get in the way.

Zim's soft squealing appeals have upgraded to deafening screams as the tiny blade divides his flesh. Instead of bright ruby **;** dark, thick green fluids run along the newly harrowed cut. It is as dense as human blood.

Unable to concentrate, I pull back. "Oh shut up! Stop crying, you stupid monster!"

I've managed to mark him all the way down to his undercarriage. A green line has appeared, and tendrils of green run down his ribs and belly. I grab a few towels, and, indifferently, I place them at various locations at his side to soak up the blood.

It's only the first incision, and he's bleeding copiously.

"Stop! Stop it, please!" Zim drawls pathetically. At least he has stopped screaming. I should have bought myself some earplugs or something. It's just as well the lab has soundproof walls.

I must admit, the blood is... getting to me a little. It's not even red, so I shouldn't care, right? He's not a human being. He's just... a thing. A heartless creature with no morals, no soul. His only value is to be cut apart, and studied. It's no different to cutting up a frog, or a rat.

I shake my head. I have to straighten myself out... have to regain control.

I can do this!

I trade the scalpel for something a little bigger. It's another surgical knife that's longer in the blade and handle. I poke it along the fresh cut I've made, and feel Zim's warm blood coat the material of my gloved fingers. With this sensation comes a great stab of guilt that's far deeper than any wound I've yet to inflict on Zim. I stall yet again as he trembles and whines. I do not like the way he struggles. It makes me feel queasy, and only serves to pronounce the guilt in big, capital letters that glow and beat in my head.

I'm reminded again of that calm, still night, and of Zim enraptured by the moon as he stands there, small and pale beneath its austere glare.

Was it the beauty that held you, Zim? Stopped you pacing and fretting for just a moment? Did it push back those bad dreams? Did it give you some inner peace?

Suddenly, I... I want to know.

Madly, I drive back the deliberation as if such thoughts are sinful. I cannot hesitate! Not at this crucial moment! Just... just get it over with! Don't look into his eyes! Don't think about moons or whatever! Just do your JOB!

The knife tenderly sinks in below Zim's diaphragm where I believe his spooch resides. The interlude is smooth and effortless: the knife slips into his flesh with terrifying ease.

Zim goes back to screaming. It is a bloodied, desperate sound that tears at the Irken's vocals as well as my eardrums.

Wouldn't it have been nice, to leave you, staring at that moon?

To just... let things lie between us, and walk away?

Instead I threw that bucket of acid at you.

My opinion of you didn't want to change.

Please understand, Zim. I can't let you win.

In every game, in every battle, whether it's in a card game or chess, or in a life and death struggle, someone's got to walk away at the end of it. Someone has to come out on top. It's the unwritten law of things.

It's... it's nothing personal.

I try to remain professional, setting my private feelings to one side so as not to look at them. The blade sinks in, and I am cutting through your thin layer of muscle. You have no fat. No fat at all. In fact you are bony, and muscular, weighing not much more than that of a child. Everything about you is so perfect, and here I am, cutting you into pieces.

Maybe I should have installed a camera to record the event. But I never did think of it until now. I suppose it's because I didn't want to look back on it, and see the monster _I'd_ become.

Your layer of muscle is very thin too, like a sheet of paper. And it doesn't hold against my knife. I cut through and severe your internal lining. Your screams continue, you do not relent. The only time you pause is when you need to fill your lungs again. But as the blood fills the cavity I have opened, your cries suddenly weaken.

You know I've made my decision. You've stopped begging. Your savagery could only be met by my own. And you too realize that it would turn out this way.

I am so close to dipping my hand into your belly to rasp my fingers around your spooch. But this time, I cannot.

I drop the knife, and it falls, bouncing once on the clean floor.

You are coughing and whining, your eyes darting to everything else in the room but me. Your legs and arms are rigid with pain and fear. I can feel your heart brutally racing when I place a gloved hand gently on your shuddering chest.

I.

Can't.

I should have turned, and walked away.

Should have left you standing in that silvery pool of light, bewitched by the gossamer strength of the moon and its ghostly reflection mirrored on the lake. I wanted to hate you, so I did not allow myself the luxury of 'leaving you alone.' I made myself go through with it. I wanted you to be the monster.

Now I realize that _I am_ the monster.

You lay there, panting as feverish sweat rolls down your temples. You finally look up at me, and your face is set in a tight, frightened grimace. It makes me feel worse. Makes me feel unworthy of your presence.

I am no butcher. I am no murderer.

If only I could go through with it.

If only I could be a man, and ignore the tapestry of our history.

If only I could kill you.

If only I could.


End file.
